


All the Small Things

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM themes, Bondage, Committed Relationship, Dom/sub relationship, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Safeword Use, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:19:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of vignettes. Ratchet, Prowl, and the navigation of shared desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contract

**Author's Note:**

> This is another piece of my Valentines BDSM tumblr series. The original ficlets, there were two, have been edited and expanded and now there are three more to go with them.

Ratchet folded his arms on the table and smiled. 

“You know, I don't know which one makes you happier.” 

Prowl didn't so much as look up at him, though he lifted his door wings to prove he was listening. 

“Drafting the contract or what it's for,” Ratchet clarified. “Your field has never been so calm.” 

This time, Prowl did pause and look up from his datapad. “I appreciate a clearly defined set of rules and guidelines. It is more comforting than mere verbal agreement.” 

“I don't blame you. That means there's no room for misunderstanding.” 

But it was nice, too, seeing Prowl so relaxed. His doors were at rest, his plating was loose, and his field hummed with satisfaction. The stress and struggle from the war might as well have not existed. 

Ratchet liked to imagine that this was what Prowl would be like should peace ever come about. All Optimus had to do was hand him some kind of administrative work and Prowl would be a happy mech. Of all of them, he might be one of the ones best-suited to adjust. 

Ratchet's lips curled upward. He might have been the one to suggest adding this particular play to their relationship, but Prowl had invested himself in it with all his spark. It was if he'd been longing for it without anyone noticing. 

“I trust you,” Prowl said with a small, sincere smile. “But this is for both of us.” 

“I know, Prowl. I approve.” 

Prowl's optics brightened and he bent back over his datapad. “Anything you wish to list as a nonnegotiable limit? I have already added mine.” 

“Oh? And what were they?” 

Prowl's doors twitched but his field remained calm. “I do not wish to be humiliated in any manner. Verbal degradation is vastly unappealing.” 

“Noted.” Ratchet was quite sure that the actual statement in the contract would be more detailed. “For that matter, I am not willing to do anything that will risk your spark.” 

“In that we agree.” Prowl diligently took notes. “I should probably transfer my care to Hoist or First Aid to prevent any potential biases.” 

“Might I suggest Hoist? He's seen just about everything.” 

Prowl inclined his helm. “I'll contact him first thing tomorrow.” His doors twitched again. The stylus scritched faster and faster across his datapad. 

It was all ridiculously adorable. Ratchet couldn't wait to start this adventure together. 

“Prowl.” 

“Hm?”

Ratchet leaned his helm into his palm. “I love you.” He didn't say it often, but now felt appropriate. 

Prowl's field rippled with happiness. “Thank you. Now what do you think about roleplay?” 

Ratchet laughed.

****


	2. The Dungeon

The locked door at the back corner of the medbay had always been a curiosity for Prowl. Ratchet claimed it was a storage room and was only triple-locked because of thieving pranksters and illegal high grade stills. This made sense. And Red Alert never put up a fuss about its existence either which meant Prowl shouldn't be concerned. So he wasn't. 

The curiosity, however, had always lingered. 

“There are only about five mechs who have direct access to this room including myself,” Ratchet said as he gestured for Prowl to follow him. He flashed Prowl a grin. “Red Alert is one of them by the way.” 

Well. That explained that. 

“And the others?” 

Ratchet winked. “That's their secret to share. Red gave me permission but I intend to ask the others first.” 

“Fair enough.” 

The door had three separate locks, two physical and one electronic. Ratchet pulled a key out of his arm compartment for one of them, inputted a code for the second, and turned the combination dial for a third. Prowl had seen less security for Wheeljack's lab. The door opened manually rather than sliding as well. 

Ratchet gestured for Prowl to precede him and Prowl found himself in a room about the size of two standard habsuites. It had not survived the crash intact. Half the walls were from the Ark, while the other half were solid rock that gave evidence of tool marks. 

Prowl expected a room full of strange and unusual devices that were best suited for a torture chamber. And truth be told, there was table with neatly cleaned instruments laid across it, half of which he did not recognize. But there was nothing in view that made him uncomfortable. There were even two moderately sized berths, one large enough to fit a mech of Prime's stature. 

“You said this was a dungeon,” Prowl said. 

Ratchet locked the door behind them. “That's what we call it. The fun term. But it's more than that. It's a safe place.” 

Prowl half-turned. 

Ratchet had paused by a nearby table of accessories – these at least Prowl recognized. “Safe place?” 

“It's private for one,” Ratchet explained. “There's no worry of someone barging in and rudely ejecting you from your headspace. For two, everything here has been carefully designed for safety for both participants. I maintain everything in my free time. Thirdly, there's no war when you come through that door. It's just you and your partner and whatever you want to do together.” 

“Aptly named then,” Prowl murmured. 

Ratchet flashed him one of those rare, affectionate smiles. “Yes.” He abandoned his inspection of a pair of cuffs and returned to Prowl's side, taking his hand and squeezing it. “There's some coordination involved since there are two – now three – couples who'll want to make use of it, but it's worth it.” 

“Can I safely assume we have use of it today?” 

Ratchet leaned close and pressed his mouth against a shoulder tire. “We can do whatever you want.” 

Excellent. Because given what he'd seen already, there were plenty of items Prowl wanted to try. 

He gestured to the table. “Might we start with that?” 

Ratchet's field blossomed with heat against his. “A mech after my own spark,” he purred. He squeezed Prowl's hand. 

Prowl shivered.

****


	3. The First Time

He played it safe and bound Prowl with nothing but his words and commands. Next time, they would involve accessories and toys and items to push the limits. But for now: safe. Ratchet wanted for Prowl to feel nothing but pleasure and to feel safe throughout their play. 

This was new territory for Prowl. Territory he'd wanted to explore, but new all the same. 

“On the berth,” Ratchet said, and Prowl obeyed, the lick of heat in his energy field so sharp for all that it was the first order Ratchet gave. 

“Hands and knees,” Ratchet added. “Face the wall.” 

Prowl's engine revved, his door panels twitching. This presented his aft to Ratchet, and what a fine aft it was. Ratchet stroked a hand over it, for the moment ignoring the closed interface panels, despite the fact he could feel the heat radiating from them. 

A few simple commands and Prowl was fired up. Ratchet had severely underestimated how much Prowl would enjoy this. 

“Spread your legs,” Ratchet said and watched as Prowl nudged his knees wider, his hands kneading the berth. 

“Good,” Ratchet purred and his other hand stroked the back of Prowl's thighs. Charge crackled out to greet him. He heard Prowl's sharp intake and felt the shiver that wracked the tactician's frame. 

From here, he couldn't see Prowl's face, but the lack of light reflecting off the wall let him know that Prowl had offlined his optics. And there was no mistaking the pleasure in Prowl's field. 

Ratchet grasped Prowl's hips and leaned closer, ex-venting heat over the array presented to him. He sensed the heat exuding from behind the panels, and watched the thinnest drop of lubricant seep from around the edges of it. 

“Open,” Ratchet said. 

Prowl's hips trembled. His panels cycled open, valve glistening with lubricant, spike glossy and eager, the red biolights an interesting contrast to the black plating and white highlights. Ratchet's mouth filled with lubricant. 

But first... that anterior node was begging for attention. 

Ratchet's thumbs swept inward, teasing around the edges of Prowl's valve, not quite touching the sensitive plating. Prowl's engine revved. His knees wobbled. He slumped a bit further forward, elbows bending, aft pushing closer to Ratchet's face. 

“Rest on your elbows,” Ratchet said and Prowl all but dropped himself, desperate to comply. “And don't overload until I give you permission.” 

Something like a whine built in Prowl's vocalizer and he pressed his face into the berth. Compliance lit into every shaking armor plate. 

Primus. 

Ratchet's own frame swelled with heat. He wanted nothing more than to sink into the beautiful valve presented to him, to feel it tightening around his spike as Prowl moaned in pleasure beneath him. But no. That was for another time. 

Right now was about testing the waters. And so far? So, so good. 

Ratchet licked his lips, teased the edges of Prowl's valve again, and then flicked the tip of his glossa over Prowl's anterior node. A long, low moan escaped his lover. Prowl's doorwings flicked. His valve dripped to the berth. It begged for attention. 

Ratchet obliged. 

He pressed his mouth over Prowl's valve, glossa flicking around the rim, lapping up the dribbles of sweet lubricant. He lapped at Prowl's anterior node, flirted around sensitive plating, and then came back to suckle on it. His grip on Prowl's hips tightened as Prowl bucked against his mouth. Low, needy moans spilled from Prowl's vocalizer. His spike bobbed, dripping transfluid to the berth. 

Ratchet plunged his glossa into Prowl's valve, feeling the heat and ripple of it against this glossa. He could do little more than flirt with the deeper sensors and pulled back to pay loving attention to that pulsing nub once more. Which Prowl appreciated, if the continuous shiver in his plating was anything to go by. 

He moaned into the berth, gripping tighter at the cover. His knees scooted further open until his hip joints creaked in protest.

He was being so obedient that Ratchet rewarded him by slowly pushing two fingers into Prowl's valve, nudging the deeper sensors his glossa couldn't taste. Calipers fluttered around his digits, lubricant seeping into the gaps around his joints. 

He heard Prowl's vocalizer click and disengage as he nearly spoke, only to remember that Ratchet had told him not to do so. But his frame did the work for him, begging for more with each desperate push of his aft, and bob of his spike. He trembled, valve squeezing tighter on Ratchet's fingers. 

He abandoned Prowl's anterior node in favor of lapping up a long drip of transfluid from Prowl's spike. The hot metal throbbed beneath his glossa. It seeped copiously, a puddle on the berth and a sticky line forming between the head of his spike and the puddle. 

Prowl all but whined. Ratchet stroked a soothing pat down his side and added a third finger, pumping them into Prowl's valve in counterpoint to Prowl's pushes backward. His own array begged for release and Ratchet once again had to deny it. 

He pushed his fingers deeper, savoring the clamp and ripple of Prowl's valve. His lips found Prowl's anterior node again and he lavished it with attention. Prowl keened into the berth, his ventilations stuttered and desperate. His frame burned with need. His plating clattered. 

He was close. Ratchet could taste it, the wash of lubricant sticky on his mouth and chin. Yet, Prowl waited. He obeyed. 

“You're doing so well,” Ratchet purred, drawing back. In the wake of Prowl's whimper, he applied his thumb to the anterior sensor, the light pressure causing Prowl's hips to buck. 

“Let me see your face, pretty,” Ratchet demanded. He wanted to watch Prowl overload. 

There was a moment, a pause, before Prowl shifted, agonizing slow as though he couldn't get his limbs to function. It left a somewhat awkward position for the tactician, his helm pillowed on his folded arms, but his face visible beneath the shadow of his doorwings. 

His optics were bright and hungry. His lower lip looked swollen as though he'd been worrying it with his denta. His facial plating was warm and pink. 

Ratchet's engine revved. His own patience would not last. 

“You may overload,” Ratchet said and he rested his helm against Prowl's hip as he plunged his fingers into Prowl's valve again, letting his thumb sweep the anterior node.

Permission was all Prowl had needed. 

Prowl's optics flickered. His glossa swept over his lips and his visible hand clenched. His optics burned with heat and his valve clamped down hard on Ratchet's hand. He shook, more lubricant spilling, and the crackle of electrical discharge was as audible as it was visible. 

Ratchet caressed him gently, drawing out the overload until Prowl slumped against the berth, all vents open and whirring. 

“Beautiful,” Ratchet said, removing his fingers with a lingering caress that made Prowl twitch. The berth was a mess. 

He couldn't wait to do it again.

***


	4. The Safeword

Prowl moaned, struggling to pull air through his vents as the pleasure built within him. Ratchet's spike was doing creative things to his valve, and lubricant streaked down his legs, and all he could feel was the searing pleasure in his frame. 

Ratchet pressed against him from behind, one hand clasped on Prowl's knee, pulling his leg up, opening him for Ratchet's pleasure. Prowl's hands rattled in the cuffs keeping his arms tied to the restraints bolted to the ceiling. He stood on the very tip of his pedes, the harsh clang of metal against metal echoing in his audials. 

Ratchet's other hand gripped his chin. Earlier, Prowl had been lovingly tending to those fingers with his glossa, hearing the skipping shudder of Ratchet's ventilations as the medic's arousal ratcheted higher. Now, slick with Prowl's oral lubricants, those fingers stickily pushed Prowl's helm back, baring his intake. 

He felt vulnerable like this, desperate for pleasure, and it should have been anathema. But it wasn't. By Primus, it wasn't. 

Prowl moaned again, his helm tilting further back, wishing that their various kibble didn't keep him from reaching Ratchet's lips. 

And then Ratchet's hand slipped from his chin to his intake and something inside Prowl snapped from heat to ice in an instant. His optics snapped online, his vents stalled, and there was pressure. Pressure he did not like. Pressure that made his spark stutter and his frame shake and--

“Scalpel!” he shouted, or tried to, but the best he could manage was a raspy wheeze that had nothing to do with pressure but the fact that he couldn't seem to ventilate. 

Pleasure vanished, replaced by a sheer, unrelenting dread. So much so that Prowl only distantly noticed that Ratchet's spike vanished from his valve and his hand removed itself from Prowl's intake. 

He shook. He was shaking. Why was he shaking?

“I've got you,” Ratchet was murmuring into his audial, one arm bracing around Prowl's mid-section as the other hand triggered the quick-release for the chains. 

Prowl dropped into Ratchet's arms, not that he had far to go, and here was a safe place because Ratchet was bigger than him and stronger than him and it was no struggle for him to take the bulk of Prowl's weight and lower him carefully to the floor. 

Prowl was still shaking. And he didn't know why. His hands. He looked at his hands. His fingers were trembling. 

He worked his intake. There was no damage. 

“Prowl?” 

He was cradled against Ratchet, his door wings pressed to Ratchet's front, and the soft thrum of Ratchet's field against his was nice. His valve panel, he noticed, had closed itself. Ratchet's hand stroked a soothing pattern down one arm. The other rested gently on his hip. 

Prowl focused on those touches. 

That was... well, that was undefinable. He searched his processor, pinged his tac net, but no explanation was forthcoming. It was like a glitch, but not a glitch. 

“Prowl, I need you to say something.” 

He was still staring at his hands. 

“I...” 

Static. He paused, rebooted his vocalizer. 

“I'm sorry, Ratchet,” he said, and tension he hadn't realized he was carrying abruptly abandoned him. He sagged back against his lover. “That was unexpected.” 

Ratchet's hand continued to stroke his arm, the repetitive motion strangely soothing. “What happened?” 

He managed to lower his hands, tucking them against his abdomen, up under the safety of his bumper. “Apparently, I am uncomfortable with any pressure on my intake. I apologize.”

Ratchet pressed a kiss to the edge of one of his doorwings. “Don't apologize, Prowl. I want you to be comfortable and feel pleasure. You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“Even so.” His fuel pump was still racing, though his spark was starting to calm. Such a visceral reaction was unprecedented. 

Ratchet shifted, adjusting their position, the hand on Prowl's hip moving so that it rested over Prowl's hands. “I mean it, Prowl. This isn't about me. This is about you. There's absolutely no need for you to apologize. Neither of us can predict everything, no matter how much you think you can.”

Well, Prowl wasn't going to argue that point. Battle tactics he could do. Personal interaction calculations were a different matter. 

He offlined his optics and melted into Ratchet's arms. “Thank you.” 

“You're welcome.” Ratchet's lips brushed the edge of his door panel again. “How about we call it for tonight, hm? We can wash up, share some energon, and commune.” 

“That sounds perfect.” It would give him a chance to defrag, too, perhaps figure out what had triggered within him. 

“Good.” Ratchet paused, his hand squeezing Prowl's and his vocals softened. “I'll always take care of you, Prowl. Never worry about that.” 

Prowl never had any doubts.

****


	5. Renegotiation

Ratchet took great care but in the end, Prowl always resorted to temporarily disabling some of his more sensitive plating. His frame had learned to recognize Ratchet's touch as arousing and it was hard to convince himself to react otherwise. Especially since it could become quite distracting when they were trying to have a serious conversation. 

“Anything you want to discuss about today?” Ratchet asked as his finely tuned fingers slid into transformation seams, whisking away grime that Prowl hadn't even noticed was there. And he'd thought himself to be a clean mech. 

He tipped his helm forward, letting the solvent spray cascade down his door panels and patter against the back of his helm and neck. 

“I did enjoy the session,” Prowl admitted. His purring engine was all the proof needed for that. Being the sole focus of Ratchet's attention was quite arousing. 

He could hear the grin in Ratchet's vocals. “So did I. You are a joy to tease. So responsive.” His fingers flicked a sudsy path over Prowl's panels, not that he felt anything more than the most basic pressures. “Anything you didn't like?” 

Prowl flexed a panel and winced as a kinked cable protested the motion. “I believe that if I am to spend extensive time bound, it should not be on my back.” 

“Your panels?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah. Sorry.” One of Ratchet's hands went to the sore hinge as though drawn to the injury and as he massaged the cable, Prowl felt relief flood into his frame. 

He hadn't realized how much the discomfort made him tense. “No need to apologize. It did not hurt until now.” 

“Until the pleasure wore off,” Ratchet assumed. 

“Yes.” 

Ratchet's field nudged his with apology. “I'll remember that in the future. Maybe we can try suspension. You saw the hooks in the ceiling, right?” 

Prowl had. At the time, he'd wondered to their purpose, though the thought had gone away in between one stroke of Ratchet's glossa and the next. 

“They will support my weight?” 

Ratchet chuckled. “I should hope so. They've held Prime.” 

Prowl startled and swung around to face his partner. “Prime?” 

“Oh. Didn't I mention?” Ratchet said with an air of fake innocence. He must have learned it from Jazz. Or Sideswipe. “He has a key, too.” 

Prowl cycled his optics. He hadn't even known Optimus Prime to have a partner, much less that he participated in such types of play before. “Who...?”

Ratchet shook his helm and gestured for Prowl to turn back around, which he did. Especially since Ratchet went back to massaging the sore hinge. “If he has a committed partner, he's never told me. He gave me permission to tell you. In case you wanted to talk to someone about this who wasn't me.” 

“I trust you.” 

“I know you do. And communication is really important. But sometimes, you might want to talk to someone else and get another perspective.”

Prowl made a noncommittal noise, digesting the suggestion. Ratchet was right. While he felt he could speak with Ratchet about anything, it would be nice to have someone else to speak with. He could trust Optimus not to gossip and he would enjoy hearing about the Prime's experiences, no matter how much it surprised him. 

“Prime is... like me?” 

“If you mean submissive then yes. For the most part.” Ratchet gave his hinge a loving pat and then finished scrubbing down Prowl's back. “Though I've known him to switch on a couple of occasions. I'm fine with that, by the way.” 

“Switching?” 

Ratchet patted his hip and Prowl obeyed without thinking, turning so that Ratchet could tend to his front. He didn't question why Ratchet preferred seeing to Prowl's ablutions himself, but he reaped the benefits of it every time. Ratchet's hands were skilled, beyond what he could do in the medbay. 

Ratchet lowered himself down to one knee, cloth scrubbing over Prowl's left pede and shin armor. “An exchange of roles,” Ratchet explained and winked up at Prowl. “Letting you call the shots. That is, if you're interested.”

Prowl tilted his helm. “I was under the impression that roles could not change.” 

“For some people, yeah. They like their roles rigidly defined. But I'm not one of those.” Ratchet grinned. “I don't see anything wrong with laying back and letting you do the work sometimes.” 

“Hedonist.” 

“I'll consider that a compliment.” Ratchet scrubbed higher, swiping his cloth over Prowl's thigh and into the gaps at his hip, close to his panels. “You don't have to, Prowl. I just want you to know that's an option.” 

“One that I am inclined to consider.” Prowl looked down at his partner. “You are certainly someone in need of a, what do they call it, a spanking?” 

His lips curled into a smirk as Ratchet did a genuine double-take and then burst into laughter. “Damn right, I am,” Ratchet said, and pushed to his pedes, pressing his forehelm against Prowl's, their chevrons chiming together. “Have I told you lately that I love you?” 

“Twice this morning,” Prowl replied. “But don't that let that stop you from saying it again.” 

Ratchet kissed him and that was admission enough.

***


End file.
